


hey jealousy

by makapedia



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Angry Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Living Together, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, as well as mentioned mytho/fakir, fakir struggles with his possessiveness and tries to balance it in a healthy way, mentioned/implied rue/ahiru and mytho/ahiru, themes of possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: Possessiveness has always run ugly in him.
Relationships: Ahiru | Duck/Fakir (Princess Tutu)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 120





	hey jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> it's not bad, but this is a bit uncharacteristic of me and my work, sooooo. it's kind of rough around the edges and toys with themes of possessiveness and jealousy, and while i don't think it ever dips its toes too deeply into anything bad, i guess i still want to warn for it. i know it's not everybody's cup of tea!
> 
> also it's not beta'd because i am a coward these days lmao. hope you enjoy regardless!

It's not like he's surprised.

This is how she is; Ahiru has always had a heart too big for her own good, a certain level of concern for everyone around her that endears the world. He'd experienced it himself - though sometimes he thinks 'fallen victim to it' is a better way to describe the feeling. It wasn't so much a conscious choice as it was an emotional hit and run on her part, and sometimes, Fakir allows himself the mental space to lament his shriveled-up heart and the way it still manages to slam in his chest when she smiles at him.

It's not like he's surprised. And it's not like he blames her either. Ahiru has a way about her, with her clumsy honesty and unrelenting kindness, and anyone who denied her would be a fool. He'd been that fool once, and even then, she'd still steamrolled her way in, so he _gets it._ He does. Perhaps better than anyone else, Fakir _gets_ why people flock to her.

It's nice to feel wanted. And she's so obvious about it, without a spec of shame. Ahiru openly wants, and validates, and all of those other embarrassing, squishy expressions of feelings that make him want to keel over and die - she welcomes them with all of her heart, and puts that goodness forward, and so of course Rue won't go home. Of _course._

"It's soft," Ahiru comments, sitting cross-legged behind her, weaving her dark hair into a tight braid. "What conditioner do you use?"

"They custom make it for me," Rue says, eyes closed, smiling. If Ahiru tugs too hard, she doesn't comment. "I could bring you some next time, if you'd like."

"Oh! You don't have to do that for me!"

"Not that I think you need it," Rue says, and there's still a smile on her face. "You have beautiful hair."

Ahiru's freckled cheeks burn pink. She quacks something self-consciously but Fakir doesn't hear it - there's a burn in his gut he chooses not to name, and instead of lingering in the kitchen, he downs his cup of coffee and retreats to his office.

.

Possessiveness has always run ugly in him.

He knows this, and actively works to undo the knot of jealousy in his chest whenever things get too tight and messy. Once upon a time, he'd taken it upon himself to be Mytho's keeper, and when the realization had hit that he couldn't be the one to keep his prince safe, well. The rest is history.

Ugly, damning history. Even now, the shadow of who he'd allow himself to be hangs heavy over him, and the memory keeps him up at night, guilty and sick. He doesn't think he's cruel at his core, not really, just _possessive,_ and stubborn, and it frustrates him, this inability to keep his feelings in check. He is a grown man now, nearly twenty-three, and should be able to compartmentalize better.

Ahiru's kindness endears people to her. _Everyone_ loves her. This is not news to him. He is part of this _everyone,_ whether he likes it or not - and he does like it, if he allows himself to be honest. He likes loving her, likes the way she makes him feel most of the time. Holding her hand fills him with a sense of purpose, reminiscent of his time as a knight, only without the promise of impending doom. He _likes_ loving her.

… Most of the time.

He doesn't like the sinking feeling he gets when Mytho leans down to hug her. He also doesn't like the way his heart drops into his stomach when she flusters at Rue, holding her jaw steady while she applies gloss carefully to her stuttering lips. But most of all - and most importantly, right now - he cannot stand watching _Autor,_ of all people, giving her a once over while she stands on her toes, struggling to reach a book off of the shelf.

He kind of hates it, really. And control be damned, Fakir can't help but be a little gruff, can't help but glare and scowl and hate himself, too. It's not like she's even doing anything wrong. People love her. People have always loved her. He can't blame her for making people love her - not when he's guilty of loving her too.

Still. It seems this possessiveness will always be a part of him, and that feeling, the lack of control on his part, makes him angrier than anything.

Autor catches his glare. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning his glasses instead of watching the hem of Ahiru's skirt.

"Almost, I can- oh!"

She's so stupidly short. It pisses him off. Just about everything pisses him off it seems. He can stand behind her and shut her in with his arms and she's just that, boxed in - it doesn't suit her. Ahiru, a caged bird, head tipped back, looking at him with big blue eyes, her back pressed to his chest.

It makes her blush. The color of her cheeks shouldn't sedate him so.

Fakir hates himself. "Here," he says, and reaches the cookbook so easily he might laugh, if he wasn't busy being a jealous asshole.

Ahiru bites her lip. It is as adorable as it is maddening, and he wants to remain like this, pressing her to the bookshelf with his hips, shielding her so neatly from the rest of the world. He knows it's selfish, and not an option - Ahiru had wanted to be a girl so badly, had wanted to walk and talk and _dance_ \- but still here he is, looking down at her, memorizing every freckle on her button nose and the way they seem to blur at their edges beneath the heat of her blush.

"I could have done it," she insists.

He knows that. "You're too stubborn to ask for help," he says instead.

"Because I could have done it!" But she's still blushing, and when Fakir finally removes himself from the situation, she's still watching him; he can feel her eyes on him, burning a hole in his back as he storms away.

.

"Are you angry at me?"

Fakir rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and does not allow himself to give anything away. "I have no reason to be angry with you."

She makes a frustrated little grunt behind him. Fakir doesn't think about it and instead turns the handle of their faucet, and allows the water to run until it's hot enough to scorch him. Perhaps if he sits here long enough he will simply melt away and not have to face her. He can face the ugliness of his feelings, can make peace with them - or can at the very least continue to lock them away behind closed doors - but can't face her inquisition in good faith.

It's part of loving her. He doesn't want to lie, doesn't particularly like telling her sugared half-truths, but. _But._

"You won't look me in the eyes," she says, voice waning. He can practically see her without looking, standing pigeon-toed, hands wringing together, shoulders sagged - ugh. "And everytime we're in the same room together you just sort of, like, escape, like something's bothering you, or like even just being near me makes you so angry that you can't stand it-"

"Ahiru," he reminds her, staring directly into the steam as he focuses on doing the dishes, "I have no reason to be angry with you."

"Sometimes people don't need reasons! Sometimes feelings just happen because you're ignoring other things."

Well, how is he supposed to respond to that one? He squeezes the sponge in his hand like a makeshift stress ball and exhales slowly.

"... Are you angry at me?" she asks again, so pathetically that it makes him feel terrible and crazy and like _the worst._ He is _the worst._

"I'm not angry at you."

"But you're angry." Ahiru doesn't miss a beat. He hates how easily she can read him. "You… you're doing that thing with your lips…"

"You're not even facing me," Fakir says, ever the facade of calm and collected. He will give nothing else away. What thing with his lips?

"And your fingers, they keep like... " Her hands are on him now, pressed to the line of his spine, and he will not melt into her touch, goddammit. She drags her fingers up his back until she can hook them over his shoulders, and then she presses the tips right into the bone, like tiny pinpricks of pain.

It's stupid. She hadn't been a bird with claws. He's not caught in any set of talons, not now, not ever. Ahiru is no hunter.

"... Yeah?"

"It's like you keep wanting to clench your fists but you know better, so you back off, but then your fingers keep like... " And she does that thing again, pressing down into the fabric of his button-up. He hates himself for wishing it was skin-to-skin instead.

"I don't follow."

"You do it when you hold my hand, too. Like you _want_ to squeeze but you decide against it."

Now she sounds sad again. Fakir digs at some dried potato with his thumbnail and holds his hands directly beneath the stream of hot water until his skin turns pink. "I don't want to hurt you," he says finally, voice clipped. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"Fakir, no."

"I forget sometimes that you have bird bones. Sorry."

"Fakir, that's not…" Her sigh is tremendous, and her hands slide down his shoulder blades, burning a dangerous path in their wake. Then she presses her forehead to his back and asks, tiny and defeated, "What did I do?"

Right. He can't ignore this. She won't just go away and perk back up on her own after this one. He knows her too well. Ahiru will dither on it for hours if he lets her, will lay in bed next to him and cry while she thinks he's sleeping, and he'll feel like the biggest dick in the world, for making such a sweet girl feel so guilty.

Fakir sets the plate onto the drying rack. Shuts the water off and dries himself with a hand towel. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says sincerely.

"You're upset."

"I'm a grump. You've said so yourself."

"But! But I can tell, you know, when it's like something stupid I did, like when I tried to bake you a cake for your birthday and forgot the eggs, and then when I realized it and tried to take the cake out before it got too bad I burned my arm on the door of the oven-"

His blood pressure raises just thinking about it. Impulsive little idiot. She'll turn him gray early. "Have you been baking?"

"No! But at least that way I'd know what you're angry about!"

He can't leave her feeling guilty. She is who she is, and she can't help that she's cute as a button and sweet like nobody else. Of course everybody wants a piece of her. Hell, even he wants a piece of her - the only problem is that he's greedy and selfish and wants _all_ of her. He broods about it as he turns to face her, takes her gently (gently!) by the shoulders and nudges her back, just enough so he can look her in the eye and hopefully sway her with his veracity.

At least she's not crying. Fakir presses his lips into a firm line and says, very truthfully, "Don't worry. It's nothing you've done. It's not you I'm angry at."

Her brow furrows. "But!"

He leans down and presses a kiss very chastely to her forehead. It's a facile of what he really wants, or what he'd wanted to do yesterday in the library, or when Rue had overstayed her welcome and so smoothly wormed her way into Ahiru's heart of hearts - but it's what Ahiru deserves, this gentleness, and though he's no longer a knight, Fakir still thinks there are merits to chivalry.

The look she gives him is heartbreaking, like now she might actually cry.

She's right; he can't meet her eye. "I'm sorry for worrying you. I'm going to head to bed. Sorry."

.

It's hard to avoid her when they live together.

Hell, they share a bed. Fakir spends his nights rolled onto his side, staring at the wall, and it takes everything in him not to roll over and crush her against him when he hears the hint of a sniffle. It's his fault, he supposes, for offering his whole life up to a sweetheart crybaby, but perhaps this is the punishment he deserves, for wanting her too pervasively. Like maybe being forced to listen to her cry and knowing that it's his fault will force the burn in his blood to run cold, instead.

It's a long week. They pass like ships in the night, and at dinner, she stares at him like a kicked puppy, obviously trying to mind his boundaries while also wanting to throw herself at him and squeeze him in a hug until he feels better or whatever it is she thinks will fix the problem.

He feels like a jerk. Probably because he _is_ a massive jerk, and Ahiru deserves better, but this is still better than forcing her to walk on eggshells around him because he's busy being a jealous dickhead. At least with this wide berth he's giving her, she's safe from his misplaced angst. Or… safer than she is otherwise, anyway.

.

It works for about a week. And then Fakir comes home from a walk around the lake to Ahiru and Mytho, sitting in the garden, smiling, and something in him finally gives.

It's the first smile he's seen from her in days. The effect isn't lost on him, and maybe it's a mix of a few things, of his own, expired feelings for Mytho and the memory of Princess Tutu, dancing so delicately with her prince charming, and perhaps of Ahiru, at fourteen, standing outside his dorm window, throwing rocks, waiting, waiting, for Mytho to poke his head out and offer her a blank smile.

His footsteps fall heavy on the stone path. Both Mytho and Ahiru look up from their giggle session, Mytho looking pleasantly surprised and Ahiru looking guilty, as she has for the past seven days, but there's something about it now - how she'd sought out Mytho for comfort, how he'd managed to make her smile, and how even though he knows the guilt isn't born from anything nefarious happening between them it still so easily could read that way, if his comprehension was just a little bit worse -

Fakir slams the front door behind him, fists clenched at his side. His nails dig into his palms.

He is a jerk. A colossal, super jerk, and Ahiru hasn't done anything wrong, for fuck's sake. He shouldn't be so, so, whatever this is, whatever he's choosing to call it now. Possessive? Jealous? Disgusting?

The bells on their door jingle behind him. Ahiru's voice rings through, panicked and confused. "Fakir? Is everything okay?"

It's like all of the work he's done the past few years flies right out of the window. "Don't you have company?"

It's a far harsher tone than he's used on her in years. Since their time at the academy. Hell, since the first few times he'd met her as Princess Tutu - and he knows it's wrong, because he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, and the words cut her immediately on their edge, and she wilts back, clearly hurt.

Fuck. Fakir grinds the heel of his palms over his eyes.

"I… is that a bad thing?"

"No," he says through gritted teeth. "No, it's not a bad thing. Never mind. Just… go talk to Mytho. It looked like you were having fun."

Christ, it's like he's a child again. How petulant can he sound, like a toddler denied his favorite toy; _it looked like you were having fun._ As if this distance between them isn't his fault to begin with. As if he's not the one actively pushing her away.

The door jingles again, and Ahiru steps inside, barefoot. "He wanted to ask for advice, and I wasn't doing anything, so-"

"Why aren't you wearing shoes," he grunts, scrubbing at his face harder, hating himself. It's like he can't stop, like everything is just spewing out of him at once. "Your feet are all dirty now and you're going to track dirt all over the house-"

"It was just in the garden! And just for a minute!" she fires back, apparently no longer going to take things sitting down. "Is that what this is about? Do you think I'm too gross or something?"

She literally couldn't be further from the fruth. Fakir pushes a hand through his bangs instead and says, "No, of course not."

"Then what is it? You've been avoiding me for days, looking like you've got a stick up your butt or something, and now _this_ \- Mytho's your friend and I thought you'd be happy to see him, and-"

"Well _one_ of us was sure happy to see him."

It's like he's detonated a bomb. For a long moment it's silent between them, and Ahiru's mouth hangs open, like he's caught her by surprise and now her brain needs time to buffer and reassess everything. He can see the moment it all clicks, when that wrinkle in her brow loosens and then she looks sad again, like she has for the past few days, and Fakir is officially the biggest fucking jerk in the whole world.

"Sorry."

"You're jealous," she says, and the fight leaves her shoulders, just like that. "You've been _jealous_ all this time."

"No," he lies, lyingly, like a liar.

"You thought... but?" Her brows wrinkle again and Ahiru tries to take a step toward him. "Fakir, Rue and Mytho have been married for years."

He knows that. "I know that." he says, then adds, "stupid," for good measure. "I'm not jealous, it's just…"

If he's not jealous then what _is_ it? What other explanation can he offer that will satisfy her? Of course he's jealous, he thinks, stewing in this ugly, pathetic feeling of his. Of course he's jealous, when everyone in this town wants to be a part of her life - what place is left for him? What tiny, miniscule place could he take up in her heart?

"... Whatever," he says, because it's stupid. Fakir kicks off his shoes and starts furiously unbuttoning his coat. "I told you it wasn't anything you'd done. It doesn't matter."

"You were just so mad!" Ahiru insists, and then she's stampeding over to him, not even bothering to wipe off her feet on the welcome mat. "Like. _So_ mad! You're jealous!"

"And you said it yourself: it doesn't make any sense. So let it go."

"Fakir," Ahiru says, and her eyes are so big and so blue and he stumbles for a moment over the last button of his coat. "Rue's pregnant. Mytho was asking me for advice because I raise baby birds, and none of his other friends are parents, so..! So nothing's going on. Nothing's _ever_ been going on."

As if he doesn't know that. Rue's had Mytho wrapped around her finger for years, and he'd have to be blind to not see that. He knows it doesn't make any sense, being this jealous, but then he thinks of how she'd looked in that moment, happy and carefree, and then his heart hurts all over again, like the bitter, cranky guy he still apparently is.

He practically throws his coat onto the hook on the wall. Tries very determinedly to push past her and not get caught up in her web. This isn't Ahiru's mess to fix. These are feelings he has to work harder to ignore, has to work harder to lock behind more doors, lest they hurt her again.

"And! And in the library," she yelps, still on his tail, and grabs his wrist before he can fully make his escape. "You were jealous then, too?"

"Ahiru," he says tightly. "Please."

"Of… of Autor?"

He looks back at her, with her long, wild hair tied back in a braid, one of his older shirts hanging loose on her. She has it tucked in at the waist, and the sleeves rolled up to her knobby elbows, and buttoned so messily it looks like she's missed the top one - her collarbone glows, pale and freckled, and it's so easy to tell at this angle that she's not wearing a bra. With so much of her shoulder showing, it's clear there's a lack of a strap, and then his blood burns again, once more, with feeling.

.

He moves in a haze, and the hallway wall shudders a bit as he turns and presses her to it, a bit more roughly than he ever has before. He's not exactly proud of it - it's a bit barbaric, the display - but it catches her attention and cuts her off, and Ahiru gasps as he presses a knee between her legs.

She's so pretty when she blushes. She's so pretty all of the time.

"You have no idea the effect you have on people," he says, now fully boxing her in with his arms. "Do you have any clue how many people stare at you? I just about wanted to break his neck for looking at you without your permission."

"He- he wasn't?" She's confused. " _My_ permission?"

Of course her permission. It can't be anything else. He's not that guy anymore, will never be - her feelings are of utmost importance, and failure to comply with them is deserving of punishment of the highest power.

Ahiru doesn't squirm beneath his stare. Maybe she should. "Do _I_ have your permission?"

" _Fakir_ ," she says slowly. "I. We're dating?"

So he looks, in ways he doesn't normally allow himself. He likes to think himself a gentleman, or at least something close to it, so he doesn't typically look at her as if she's anything but herself - cute, bumbling Ahiru. But she's pretty, and he's been in love with her for years, and her neck is delicate like a swan's, long and slender, and he zeroes in on it like a hawk.

It's stupid. He's stupid. He can't stop himself. "Everyone wants a place in your heart."

"I, um?"

His mouth finds that pretty curve of her neck, where it meets her shoulder, and he presses a kiss there, warm and wanting. " _Everyone_."

She makes a little whining sound in her throat, and he kisses his way to her collarbone, the center of her breastbone, the pit of her throat. He can feel her pulse racing there, beneath the thin layer of her skin, so delicate beneath his teeth.

"Mmh, Fakir," she moans, and her hips budge, just enough to press herself more firmly against that knee wedged between her legs. "My heart's already yours."

Not all of it. He's not foolish enough to think he owns all of her - or any of her, because he doesn't own her, that's not what this is - but he wants her, all of her, even when he shouldn't, and the next kiss he presses to her jaw is almost angry in nature. He wants to leave a mark on her, somehow, wants other people to know that he'd been here, and then suddenly he's a stupid teenage boy again and determinedly, agonizingly sucking hickies on her neck, like a tool.

"F- Fakir!"

"You don't mean that," he says, because she shouldn't.

"I!" She squirms, and he wishes she wasn't wearing jeans, because the urgency in her hips makes him want to ravish her, and _that's_ a thought he's never let himself have before. "Of course I do, you-! It's not the same, you know, what I feel for everyone else and what I feel for you-"

A hand drops from pinning her to the wall to unbutton her jeans. _Her_ hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, urging him on, like she doesn't know the danger she's flirting with, or like she doesn't care - either way, he's stepping back from her and Ahiru whines at the loss of pressure.

He doesn't leave her wanting long. The pants are around her ankles in moments, and he vaguely registers that she'd been wearing _his_ jeans in the garden, rolled up at least three times around her ankles. Her legs are long and pale and the freckles are particularly dark around her knees. He wants them around his face, but he doesn't have the time to linger on that particular desire, because Ahiru hooks her arms around his neck and tugs him back to her, and he's never been able to resist her, not for very long.

His knee presses back between her hips and she sighs against his lips, pleased. She has her fingers in his hair and whimpers his name, and the burning in his blood has completely taken over at this point.

"Does Mytho make you feel like this?" he asks, and it's cruel, to expect tongue-tied Ahiru to respond, but now he's got a hand on her hips, leading her through his pace, and dammit all, he wants an answer. "Does _Rue?_ "

He can feel her breath on his lips. She tugs on his hair, and she's so _shy,_ he thinks, as she turns her head and presses a blushing cheek to his, instead of owning up to her own desire.

"Does she?"

"Nnh," Ahiru moans, "I don't- she's not-"

"Rue's pretty," he says, and it's definitely cruel of him. "So's Mytho. They're far prettier than I am."

She trembles. Then she loses control of her legs, and does a desperate little hop, just enough to link her legs around his waist instead, and then he's fully pinning her against the wall. She seems to enjoy the pressure, being caught between the wall and him, and practically preens when he moves his hand from her hip to loosen his belt.

It's hard to do, when she's glued to him like a barnacle, but he makes it work, and then his pants are unzipped, too, and the relief is fleeting; she's burning, and that delicious heat between her thighs makes him feel crazier than anything else, and something like pride fills in his chest, dangerous and nasty.

"You _like_ pretty," he says, grinding against her, pinning her, caging her. She _likes_ pretty and kind and _sweet._ She always has.

It pulls such a defeated gasp from within her. " _No._ "

"You blush," he insists. "You blush so hard. Do you like it when Rue calls you cute?"

" _Fakir,_ " she whimpers, clawing at him, and her hands are everywhere. Cupping the back of his neck. Grasping at his shoulders, his back. Sometimes they find purchase again in his hair and pull, like she owns him or something.

He supposes she does. They wouldn't be here if she didn't.

"Do you like it when _I_ do?" He finds himself asking. Fakir kisses a path up the side of her neck, to her ear, and he can feel the heat of her blush, even here. "Would it make you blush too?"

"I!" Ahiru squeaks, legs tight around his hips. "Do... do you even have to ask?"

He bites the lobe of her ear and allows himself to slip his hand beneath the waistband of her panties. They're simple and cotton, and he knows he was probably with her when she bought them in a pack of five or something, but they're on her, so they're automatically the hottest thing in the world right now. She's slick, so slick, and when he brushes his middle finger over her clit her whole body jolts, as if he'd snipped a live wire.

Even her voice jolts. It breaks, in that cute way it does when she's excited or scared, and her back arches off of the wall.

"Whh- _hah,_ Fakir, what-" her whine cuts her off when he sinks a finger into her, knuckle deep, with ease. " _Whyareyoujealous._ "

Because he loves her and so does everybody else. Because somewhere in his heart, Fakir knows he doesn't compare, and fears, childishly, that she will see this truth too and move on. And he supposes that would be for the best, if Ahiru decided she wanted someone else, but-

"You're not mine," he says, and it's the truth.

Her nails drag down his neck. "Wh, huh?"

She's not his. She's not anybody's. He is just the dick who's lucky enough to get to kiss her goodnight, and the dick quite literally lucky enough to… well. Get her off. Fakir knows his place, and reminds himself of it diligently as he kisses the side of her forehead and slips inside of her properly.

Her breath burns his neck. It's nothing compared to the heat of her, all around him, melting him down to his bones. But he has a job to do, after all. He has a duty to uphold.

Fakir tries to keep it slow, he does. The burn in his blood is a full blown wildfire at this point, and Ahiru's still gripping at his shoulders like her life depends on it, but he tries to mind himself, tries to draw it out and not jackhammer into her angrily. He's slept with her hundreds of times, but they always seem to favor missionary - or rather he opts for it, instead of indulging himself and his gross, possessive feelings and holding her by her pretty throat - and it's not lost on him that this is the first time they've ever done something like this.

He can't decide if he feels terrible or disgusting. Can't decide how he feels about Ahiru whimpering and clawing at him, pulling him closer and closer, as if he can physically be closer to right now without completely crushing her against this damn wall.

"Is this what you like?" he finds himself asking. "Is this what does it for you?"

"Hh?"

"Are you _satisfied?_ "

She flutters and trembles all around him and drives him mad. "I love you," she whimpers, trying to turn her head, trying to get her mouth on him, too, but he's bigger than her, and Ahiru does a little hiccuping sound when he jerks his hips a bit too roughly into her.

This surely isn't the fairy tale romance she's dreamed of. No prince would take her against a wall. No prince would possess a tongue and wit as cruel and jealous as his. Happily ever after his ass, he thinks, and crushes her against him, unable to help himself from being as close to her as humanly possible.

"I love you," she says again, fingers clenched up in the fabric of his shirt. "You know I love you, right? I love you more than anything else in the world."

She'll thaw his icy heart right back out of his chest with talk like that. And here he's been, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world, and she- he can't even begin to deserve her. He pauses, bones stiff, neck sore from leaning like this over her, and Ahiru digs her heels into his hips.

"Tell me you want me," he says gruffly.

It gets a rise out of her. He can feel nothing but her, and the bite of her teeth on his shoulder, even through the fabric of his shirt. "Want you," she yelps, when her silence earns her nothing but stillness. "I've always wanted you-"

"Not always," Fakir says, and pistons his hips. "Don't lie."

"You know what I mean!"

"You wanted Mytho," he says, because he can't help it anymore, the gate's already open and the wound is already gushing. She's pressed so tightly to his chest now that he must bleed on her too, must stain her with the birthmark across his chest and what it'd meant, what it still means. "You wanted to be his princess, didn't you?"

"That… that was so long ago…?"

But now it's all he can think about. Mytho and how she'd _wanted_ him, wanted him enough to forgo her carefree life as a duck, had wanted him enough to give everything she'd earned away just for his happy ending. Or he thinks of any of her friends and the way they smile at her when she trips, or how Autor acts all high and mighty, but his eyes still follow her when she enters a room, because she just commands that sort of attention.

It's the wrong time to be obsessing over it. He's the one who's got her pinned in the hallway, he supposes — but sometimes he thinks it's because she's never truly had any alternative. Who else knew her truth? Who else was allowed the chance to fight for her?

"You wanted Mytho too," she murmurs.

"I'm not even thinking about that right now."

"Maybe I am!" Ahiru blurts, squirming, trying to twist herself in his grip. "Why…! You won't let me kiss you," she whines.

It's not a bad idea. If he was kissing her he'd have to shut up and stop hurting her, but he's not sure he deserves it, at this point. Besides. It's too late now, he's in too deep, and the damage has already been done — she knows.

"Is that what you want," he asks, pressing his mouth into her hair. "Is it me you want to kiss?"

"I'm! I can't believe you're asking me that when we're doing _this_ , you big jerk—"

"What," Fakir starts, and then he holds her there against the wall, hips pressed as tightly against hers as he can manage. "What're we doing?"

"Jerk! _Jerk!"_ But she pulls his hair so insistently that he very nearly purrs, far too pleased to be in her hands. Every inch of her skin buzzes a delicious pink, and Fakir wants his mouth on her, so he kisses the side of her face, pants against her cheek, as Ahiru makes a little squeaking sound.

"Ahiru."

"I wouldn't do this with anyone else," she grouses, eyes squeezed shut. "I don't- I don't _want_ to do this with anyone else-"

For that little admission, he slips a hand from her hip just far enough to circle her clit with the press of a possessive thumb. She gasps and clenches, and that fluttering, maddening heat around him very nearly melts his brain. Her hips arch and he relents, finally, leading her through another thrust that must have her seeing stars - and Ahiru has always been expressive and loud in bed, much to her own embarrassment, but this is next level for her - the back of her head thumps against the wall as she throws herself back and _whines_.

So he asks it again: "Do you want me?"

" _Wh!"_

"Ahiru," he mutters, then rolls the lobe of her ear between his teeth. It's sick, this thrill he gets from control - she might be falling apart, but he's teetering so precariously on that ledge himself, and though he's angry at himself, for demanding such validation, there's still a lurch in his chest, a crack in his sad little heart thundering, threatening to break loose completely.

He still doesn't allow her a moment to collect herself. It's definitely cruel of him, but this pace has progressed too far for him to back off now. The pull of her is too seductive, and Ahiru may not be able to string together enough words to produce a proper sentence, but she can still _beg,_ and beg she does. And if there's one balm for the ache in his chest, well, it's tending to her pleas for him. Something like purpose explodes through him, motivating beyond anything else, and he allows himself to be rough with her, allows his hips to slam in her.

It's sort of like haggling with himself. He will be this rough around the edges version of himself, will sacrifice his calm just long enough to allow Ahiru to hurry up and _finish_ and then he will school himself into something more proper and knightly. Just for a few moments, he can pound her into the wall relentlessly, can bite her neck and enjoy the way her nails dig into his shoulders, as if she's clinging to a cliff's edge.

"F…! _Oh,_ oh, oh!" she cries, face pressed to his chest, cheek so close to the slamming of his heart, and she's so warm and tight, like a vice. Her voice breaks half a second before she does, shattering like a promise all around him, and he has never, ever been able to resist her.

.

It's like she's drained him of his anger, all in that one, white-hot, blinding moment, and then he is boneless and hollow, gasping, relenting. Ahiru wobbles and without him holding her steady, her legs drop to the floor and her back slides down the wall, and she breathes heavily, like it's tremendously difficult for her to catch her breath again.

Fakir presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes. Well, at least they're on the same page about something - breathing is impossible. His heart feels like it's clogging his throat, like he might choke on it, and his bones lack marrow.

Her hands grip at the fabric of his slacks. She tugs, insistently, still panting herself.

He allows his eyes open, just a crack, and she's staring at his knees. Ahiru looks like a mess, legs bare, thighs slick and pink, splotches on her neck bruising, the collar of her (his) shirt skewed, pushed aside far enough to hang off of her, leaving one freckled shoulder bare and heaving.

Fakir leans back. Presses a palm to the wall to steady himself. Then Ahiru looks up at him and there are tears in her eyes.

 _Fuck._ He's falling to his knees with her in seconds, exhaustion be damned - it's not like he has any bones left in his body anyway. The fight's quite literally been fucked from his being, and now he is nothing but a pathetic, sad jackass, and the type of neanderthal that makes her cry. "A… Ahiru, sorry, sorry, I shouldn't of-"

"You don't think I love you?"

"No," he says soothingly, reaching for her. Her cheeks are so rosy and damp, now, in his hands, and his heat drops into his stomach like a bomb. "No, that's not it."

"I love you so much," she cries, and her fingers lace around his wrists with the sort of possessive bite that is more characteristic of him. "I don't love anyone else the way I love you!"

"I'm sorry," he says.

"And I've _never_ loved anyone else the way I love you." Her fingers are so tight around him, and she's holding him the way he'd been afraid to hold her, and his stupid, selfish heart stutters in him, as if he has any right to feel anything except for remorse right now. "Not Mytho, Not Autor, and - and not Rue! It's not - I want to be with you forever, like you said, a-and not just because I feel bad for you or something."

"I told you it didn't make any sense," he tries, then leans forward, just enough to kiss her right on her forehead. He nudges her bangs back with his nose and rests his lips there on her sweating skin.

"... I don't even notice anyone else," she says, and her voice breaks, in that darling, sad way it does sometimes, when she's trying to keep herself together. He thinks of when he'd found her at the bottom of the lake, defeated and lost, and hates himself that much more for everything. "When you said you'd stay with me it made me really happy, and not because I thought _oh,_ at least _somebody_ will - I wanted it to be you. I would've never asked you, but-"

He slides against her. Presses his forehead to hers, instead, and Ahiru sniffles. His thumb brushes soothing paths across her cheek.

"... You don't think I love you?"

"I think you love everyone," Fakir says, very honestly, far too pitifully. "And I know everyone loves you, too."

"But it's not the same," she says, and her brows furrow.

It's not. He knows that. It doesn't mean he can't be a selfish asshole and still want more of her, though, and Fakir purses his lips instead of owning up to _that_ little nugget of truth. To ask for more of her - Ahiru, who has always given everything she has to everyone else, who has never asked for a damn thing herself - he's no better than anyone else, feasting upon her with their eyes, taking, greedily, from her heart of hearts.

"I'm sorry," he says instead. And he means it.

"I just thought," she starts, then bites her lip, considering it. It's like she's caught on something - perhaps her self-consciousness - but then powers through and lets out a shaky, cleansing breath. "I thought… I thought you were mine. I thought… I hoped I made you feel as special as you make me feel."

He's been hers for years. He's been hers since that first moment she'd smiled at him, and she ought to know that. Fakir tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear reverently. "I _am_ yours."

"I don't want you to be mine if I'm not yours," she admits, but now she's too torn apart to look him in the eye. Fakir leans back and gives her the space she clearly wants. "If I make you feel like… like you have to compete with everyone else for my attention, then, then it's not good for you, and if _I'm_ not good for you-"

"Ahiru," Fakir says, "No."

"I want to be good for you," she cries, and then she's letting go of him and trying to scrub the dampness from her eyes, but Ahiru has always been a messy crier. "I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel, and I can't, and!"

This could not have gone worse. "You're the best thing in my life," he says, because it's the truth, but it doesn't feel like enough, in the face of her tears.

"I wish you'd talk to me! And, and, I wish you felt like you could talk to me, and not like you have to lock yourself in your room and shoulder all of this bad stuff without me - we're a team, you know! Or… or I want us to be a team." Such a confession. It shouldn't bring heat to his face the way it's clearly bringing heat to hers, and now he can't tell if she's trying to wipe the tears from her face or rub the red from her cheeks.

What else is there to say, other than to apologize? He tries it again, hopelessly, holding her face in his hands as she sniffles and trembles. Words have never been his forte - he might be a writer, but spoken word is another thing altogether, and he is boorish and a coward - nothing like her and her broken, blunt honesty.

"... C… Can I kiss you now?" It almost hiccups out of her. She blinks at him, face still glowing with a sad warmth, lashes dark with tears. "Is that okay? Would you like that?"

It's like she's driven a knife through him. "You never have to ask," he says, but the words just sort of fall out of him, and then his face is in _her_ hands instead, and Ahiru is kissing him with everything she has.

.

"You know," she says over dinner, so casually, "I don't think you've ever been that rough with me before."

He will literally go grab a shovel and dig his own grave in the backyard. Fakir digs a tiny one in his mashed potatoes with his spoon and says, very grimly, "And I never will again."

Ahiru spins her fork around her pile of peas. There's a peculiar heat rising in her cheeks, one that reaches all the way to her ears, and Fakir's throat goes a little dry when she squirms in her seat. "I didn't say it was a bad thing."

"You called me a jerk."

"Well, maybe I like jerks!" she blurts, and her voice has gone a little too high for it to be read as anything remotely casual. Fakir finds himself raising a brow at her, and the look on his face must do something to her courage, because she sits up straighter, and that pink in her cheeks burns red, now. "I mean…! I was surprised, and all that stuff about Rue was… but it wasn't bad. You being rough, I mean, not the _Rue_ thing, that was just…!"

She's so flustered. It's so cute. Fakir clears his plate and stands, and Ahiru's shoulders bunch up as she shoves her hands into her lap. She laughs nervously, then looks to her fidgeting hands, and yeah, his throat sure is dry, isn't that something.

"Finish your dinner." he says, voice dark.

"I- _wait,_ I still-"

"Finish your dinner," he says again, but he pauses next to her, and uses the hand that's not carrying his dishes to tilt her face up, tipping her jaw with two fingers until she's blinking at him, wide-eyed and so, so red. "And then we'll talk about it."

She swallows. Parts her lips. Ahiru says, " _Ah,_ " and then closes her eyes, and Fakir leans down to kiss her, full of promise.

"... If you're sure," he says slowly.

He can feel her nod. Then he smiles, carefully, and she's smiling too.


End file.
